One should have said something
by Ysolde
Summary: A story of regretting. And of being Lancelot. And, for those paying attention, of being Tristran.


I curse your name as I stumble through the undergrowth.

It's dark out here, and foggy. I have a hazy idea of the direction of the wall. You would no doubt think that cute, seeing as we have been living and serving here for so long. But not all are like you, you arrogant bastard.

Some of us know the meaning of doubt.

I guess that is why I loathe you so. You never seem to have doubts. You think it over, reason, and then you do it. Never, in all the years I have been your brother in being stuck at this ludicrous place, have I seen you hesitate when first you had chosen your course of action. You seem like an ox in front of the plow. Your means as well-tried and sure as they are unstoppable. Like the shear of the plow dragging through the dirt, up, down, backwards, forwards, just so do you tend to grate on my nerves, do you know that?

Like yesterday.

What a night it had been. I was pissed, as I always am.

You stood there, in the corner, as you always do, surveying the rest of us as if you were the bloody Emperor himself. Hell, you always do that, the self-satisfaction so evident one would think you were the sire of all of us, and we nothing but snot-nosed kids rolling in the dirt in front of you.

There was nothing unusual about this night.

Only this time around, something about you just made me snap.

I remember the conversation – if indeed it could be called so. Oh yes, I know you think I am thick-skulled. But I remember it vividly.

I stumbled while trying to get hold of one of the barmaids, who was being less interested than I had thought she would be. You moved casually, making sure she could escape. She didn't thank you, just pranced off like a scared doe. I regained my footing and caught it then, the flicker of amusement in your eyes.

It pissed me off.

" I see you watching me..." I pointed at you, I think. "You think I don't, but I do."

You cocked your head slightly at that. "I would not be so presumptuous."

Ever the elusive one, aren't you? I snorted.

"Presumptuous of what? You watching me?"

"So presumptuous as to assume that you do not know who watch you or not," you answered softly.

"That would be... conceited of me." You seemed to be searching before settling on the word.

"But you watch me more consistently than the others. More closely." I reached out an arm to support myself against one of the posts. My head felt swimmy, and I knew you could see it, but wouldn't comment.

It only served to piss me off more.

"I do."

Your candour surprised me.

"I bet you could give me a moment by moment accounting of many of my nights."

"I can."

"_Why?" _

You didn't answer, only looked at me the way you always do. I knew you did not want this to escalate. But I did, because it was your fault. Somehow, it was all your fault.

"Why are you scrutinizing me? looking for something?"

You answered me then.

"Because that is what you ask of me. Of all around you." And you looked at me calmly, seeming to wait for my next response.

Your impudence momentarily had me stunned.

"I have never asked you to do anything like it!"

You kept staring, with those eerie mirror-like eyes of yours. "I do not put much stock in mens words."

I scoffed at you, but you remained impassive.

"Whatever you are trying to get me to admit, it is not going to work."

"I am not trying to get you to admit anything."

And then, in your most reasonable tone :"What would I gain from it?"

"In your world, one can never be certain," I retorted.

And then I heard the next words. Did they really come from my mouth? The sound of them made me cringe.

"Maybe it would finally give you the upper hand to seek out second-in-command."

_Stop it. You're shitfaced. Stop it!_

But I couldn't.

"In other words you can't think of anything." You were looking a trifle angry now. It is not something you make a display of, but no matter what you may be thinking, I do know you.

I laughed joylessly. It sounded like a mock version of myself.

"You and I have always vied for that."

"We have?" you looked almost thoughtful. Then :

"You assume many things."

"I assume nothing!"

You cocked your head then, the slow reasoning back in your voice.

"You assume..."

"What?!" I snapped, hating the sound of your explaining. You always did know how to make me feel like a blundering novice. I bet you enjoy it.

"...that all of us want the same things you do."

I taunted you then.

"Do you mean, if given the chance to have what I do, you would pass it all up?"

You looked at me quizzically.

"I have what I have. That is how things are." And you took the last sip of your lone mug. Didn't even have the decency to get pissed with the rest of us did you?

"That is enough. I can see no reason to be dissatisfied with it, or wish to be someone else."

And then, suddenly, that piercing look you always seem to reserve for when one is most offguard.

"Certainly not you, my tortured brother."

"Tortured?" Again, it felt like the voice was not my own. Somewhere, a more sensible voice was still telling me to stop, stop right now, but it was getting faint. Too faint.

I can look dangerous if I want to, and I am pretty certain I did now. I felt like a madman.

"Are you speaking to _me?!_"

I wanted you to lose it. To snap just once. But of course you didn't rise to it.

Somehow it just made it worse, illuminated with painstaking clarity that I was in the wrong. Just drunk and mean and wanting someone to pay for ... I knew not what anymore. It had been so many years. You are such an inviting punchbag, do you know that?

I could tell you were holding back a sigh then. "There seems little reason in envying another man." you said. "Be he tortured or gifted." And again you looked straight at me. "Or both."

_Save your bloody compassion. I never wanted it!_

"Oh _please!"_ I snapped. "We have been brothers long enought that i know what those looks of yours mean."

And I drained the mug I was holding, already grabbing for the next. I looked at you measuringly, before continuing :

"You have no innocence, doubt you ever did."

You shrugged.

"I am sure it makes you feel better to make sure no young thing here keep theirs intact either."

"They offer themselves to me!"

"That they do." you said laconicly. Somehow it made me smile.

"A few kind words and they are mine...you really ought to try it some time."

But you shook your head. "Why would I? I have felt no interest in any them. "

"Maybe you'd spend less nights alone."

_Stop it! Just stop it! _But I hadn't been listening for quite a while now.

"Why waste their time and mine?"

"So doing something pleasurable is a waste of time?" I shook my head incredulously.

"Others ideas of pleasure might deviate from yours, Lancelot."

The sound of my name from your mouth just seemed to carry more fuel for the rage within me. I looked at you sweetly.

"Surely, even you must admit that a good woman is a pleasure beyond compare."

"Must I ?" You answered stiffly.

"Or am I going to have to write you up to the Galahad category?" I purred. "oh, wait...I cannot...that category involves _innocence_**." **And I examined you closely, looking for a sign that I had hit something, _anything..._

"Galahad is wiser than many," you observed.

"Galahad is a boy and naïve!"

"I do not speak much with him," you pondered.. "I seem to make him uneasy."

"You make everyone uneasy!"

_Stop it! Drain your mug and go home, just cut it out, NOW!_

Again, you looked at me curiously, with that slight inclination of your head.

"I do what I must."

"I know... you steal thoughts from people's heads."

You stared at me then, impassively, but with the shutters in place in your eyes that let me know I had hit a nerve.

I felt like a rabid dog.

"You do not, however, always steal them correctly. There is a difference."

And I felt satisfied when I saw it in your face, the almost imperceptible signs that told me I had at last managed to hit you.

You remained completely calm.  
"No one accuses me of being a thief, Lancelot."

Something in the way you said it made me uneasy.

"I do not recall doing so," I evaded. "Not in so many words as such."

"You know I do not put stock in words."

"Then is should not bother you if I used 'stealing'... Or have i hit a nerve of my stoic brother?"

You looked at me coldly.

"You are a fool, Lancelot." you said. "A fool that speak of what he knows nothing about."

I laughed in your face. You smiled icily in return.

I mocked you. "There it is. The ice. Always the ice. What are you afraid of that makes it necessary for you to hide behind it?"

Your stare went from icy to blank, then.

"No one calls me a thief, Lancelot." and you put down your empty mug on the table.

"NO one."

"If words hold no stock for you..."

. It was a jerk in your head, a sudden movement that seemed to take the words from me.

"Words hold no stock for me Lancelot." you said, with treacherous softness. "But you should think of the words you offer to those that try to befriend you."

_Damn you! _It hurt. The pain gave me fuel for a final assault.

"But oh, weren't we already friends?" I said derisively, letting you know just how littled I cared for anything you might have to offer.

I need no friends. And I certainly do not need _you. _Freak.

"Yes." You said.

"For my part."

And you looked at me then, without any shutters. And I felt like the most wretched, disgusting person on earth. As I am sure you were aware, you son of a bitch.

"But maybe I was wrong thinking so highly of you brother."

And you left.

And I woke up this morning with a head the size of a Roman helmet and the bitter taste of a victory snatched away just before my nose. For I know that I was in the wrong, and I know the only arrogance I see in your eyes is the mirroring of my own self-loathing.

It exists in me, and only in me.

And maybe that is why now, as I stumble down the last slope before the edge of the forest, I am cursing you, cursing you through gritted teeth. Don't you do this to me, you aloof cockerel.

I can feel an eerie wet sensation dripping down my spine from my neck, and I know it is not my blood.

For a moment I stop and try to shake you better into place on my shoulders. I wonder how a guy so skinny can be so heavy. The woads are far behind us now, but it has taken its toll to carry you this far, and without a horse.

A soft sound escape you, barely loud enough to qualify as a groan. How like you to die while ruining my clothes with your sticky red body fluids. Even now you waste no time in sticking it in my face, do you?

Yes, I know. _I know!_

One should have said something. One should have done something, in stead of remaining, watching the weight on your shoulders as you walked off.

The fort is visible through the branches. Nearing the gate I hear myself bellowing hoarsely at them, telling them to fetch the bloody surgeon or so help me they will answer to me.

Don't you die on me, Tristran. Don't you dare die on me.

_**Author's note : This inspired by the song 'Hospital' with the band Nephew. Dialogue/argument co-construced with Gargoyle13. Then we both wrote a story. What she created out of our 'conversation' you can see by checking out her fic 'You Lie Dying'.**_


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